


What We Did in the Steam Room

by rowenablade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Crack Crossover, Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Filming a Porno Movie, Gen, Halloween, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, Laszlo is a disaster bisexual and Crowley just wants to do his job, Laszlo is an idiot, Minor violence because vampires, No smut just a lot of dick talk, Pre-Canon, This is set in the 1970's because of Crowley's outfit and literally no other reason, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27026179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenablade/pseuds/rowenablade
Summary: A look behind the scenes at the erotic cinematic classicVampire Tricked in Steam Room, as told from the perspective of director A.J. Crowley and supplemented with journal entries from lead actor Laszlo Cravensworth.or:Spooky Month comes around and I completely lose my damn mind. Written for Trickey-Boo! 2020, but the blame lies squarely on me.
Comments: 25
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

Despite what may be stamped, scrawled or dribbled in Hell’s official documents, should one find themselves so thoroughly damned as to have occasion to read such things, video pornography was not, in fact, invented by the demon Crowley.

He would have gotten around to it, he consoled himself. As it was, the humans had still been rather dubiously experimenting with sprockets and celluloid when Crowley went down for a nap in the late nineteenth century. He expected that would hold them over for at least a few more decades. By the time he woke up and shook off both the literal and figurative cobwebs, it turned out not only had they gotten the hang of motion picture technology but had already begun applying their own unique ingenuity to this marvel. For no triumph of art or science had yet been invented that did not, eventually, lead to humans asking, “How can I make money off of this?” or “Can I use it to wank?”

With film, they’d set out to answer both those questions almost immediately.

So Crowley did not invent blue cinema, but he was hardly one to let a good opportunity go to waste. After filing a series of false reports for Downstairs, he set about making them as retroactively true as he could muster, bankrolling a number of small businesses dedicated to the production, distribution and publication of video erotica[1]. Crowley supposed he could have left it at that; enabling the humans to sin without getting his hands dirty, as was his usual prerogative. However, Crowley was as susceptible to being dazzled by new technology as anyone, and couldn’t help but see some potential that the current generation of auteurs were overlooking. And so Crowley found himself learning and getting ideas. Humans came up with their own ideas all the time, but sometimes they needed a demonic influence in their ears, telling them, _Like that, only worse._

The unabashedly horny may have beaten Crowley to the punch, but there were plenty of other humans that had yet to be persuaded to tarnish their souls via the cinematic arts. Lots of people who _wanted_ to view such materials, but needed an excuse. Here was where Crowley could make his mark, in the field of plausible deniability. Parodies, for example, or premises so transparently ridiculous they could only be viewed ironically, and then, eventually, niche offerings. Curiosity was in many ways easier to manipulate than lust. You just had to know how to grab people’s attention.

As jobs went, it was hardly challenging, but it kept his numbers up and allowed him to maintain suitably nefarious appearances. Which was how Crowley came to find himself in a disused gymnasium in Soho, on a cool October evening in 1973, on the set of a production with the inscrutable working title of _Vampire Bathhouse_ , being introduced to a leading man who was almost definitely an actual fucking vampire.

——

_From the personal diary of Laszlo Cravensworth, October 11th, 1973._

_Beware, London, for a dark force of your own making stalks your swinging streets this night! It’s true, I have returned to the shores of my mortal birth to fulfill a most urgent desire. Not for the blood of my former countrymen, nor for any other bodily fluid, although I suspect I shall indulge in several, but my desire for artistic expression! I have returned to that glamorous realm of cinema, namely of the erotic persuasion. I discovered through some old connections that a production by the name of “Vampire Bathhouse” was being filmed in London. It was light work to convince the studio head that I was the only suitable choice for the lead role. My resume speaks for itself, after all. (And when it doesn’t, a little hypnosis does the speaking for it! Keep my secrets, dearest diary!)_

_Tonight I had the pleasure of meeting the production team, including the director, one Antony Crowley. He is a most stylish gentleman and wears sunglasses all the time, which, as anyone knows, is very cool indeed. Were he not a mortal man I believe we could become stalwart chums, although, of course, such things may never be. If only he knew that the dashing fellow he met today is not merely a handsome, virile mortal man but in fact a creature of ancient darkness and power, nearly three centuries in age! How he would marvel at the history I’ve seen! Alas, it may never be, for I am sworn to secrecy for not only my own safety, but the safety of all my immortal kind. Such is our burden, us lonely creatures of the night._

_Ah, but I am maudlin, dear diary. I have drunk deeply of an intoxicated go-go dancer and am now preparing to retire alone. My heart aches for the presence of my good lady wife, Nadja. Divided as we are by an ocean, I can only content myself with the memory of her honeyed voice and firm-yet-supple body. We will be reunited soon, my love, and some day I shall show you my film work and you will know that our separation was in the service of a greater and very sexy good. Dream of me, beloved Nadja. Would there was a way to hear your voice before I slumber._

——

When he returned home at dawn, Crowley immediately picked up the phone and requested Head Offices. He didn’t dial; Hell didn’t have a phone number. It did, however, have a complicated answering system that involved being rerouted through the same menu twice, with long waits on hold each time, being connected to the wrong office, instructed to call a completely different number and then going through the whole thing again. He was quite prepared for this, having helped design the thing, and painted his nails while he waited.

By the time Dagon finally picked up, the black lacquer was completely dry and Crowley was in no mood for small talk.

“Since when do we still have vampires in the field?” he demanded. “I thought they were all recalled centuries ago!”

“They were.” A bored tongue click, and a shuffling of papers from the other end of the line. “Vampires. Recalled from active service in the twelfth century. Says here fifty-eight percent returned to Hell for re-training and re-corporation. That’s an excellent response rate.”

“So the other forty-two percent just, what? Buggered off on their own?” Crowley, who was frankly stunned to hear that had ever been an option, started pacing and immediately got himself tangled up in the phone cord[2]. 

Dagon shrugged with their voice, somehow. “Probably. They were never the smartest subspecies to begin with. The ones that didn’t get themselves killed by humans seem happy just to skulk about in the shadows and drain the occasional virgin. We didn’t see the point of rounding them up.”

“Yeah, well, seems a few of them are getting a bit bolder.” Crowley banished an oncoming headache and immediately sensed a bigger, more resilient headache coming in to take its place. “Apparently they’ve caught the acting bug. One of them, anyway.”

“Wait a minute.” Dagon seemed perilously[3] close to giggling. “What’s this vampire’s name?”

“Uhhh…” Crowley shuffled around in his briefcase until he found the call sheet. “Laszlo Cravensworth. Stout chap, dark hair. Dresses like the humans were doing a century ago, but, y’know. More black.”

For a moment Crowley thought the connection had been severed, then realized the static hissing in his ear was the sound of Dagon laughing.

“Oh, don’t worry about a thing, Crowley,” Dagon cackled. “You’ve got yourself a real professional there. I’ll send you some of his film reels. I know Ligur’s a big fan.”

“No, that’s really not necessary,” Crowley began, but was cut off by a muffled guffaw and then a dead line.

His headache now firmly entrenched, Crowley went off in search of something alcoholic to add to his morning coffee.

——

It turned out shooting exclusively at night was not as much of a problem as Crowley feared. Most of the production team, not to mention all the strapping young lads who’d been brought in to fill out the cast, had day jobs as laborers, and were only too happy to be afforded the opportunity to work around their more licit schedules. And the script, a cautionary tale of a hapless football team who find themselves, in quick succession, buggered silly and drained of blood by a dark and mysterious spa attendant, did not call for any exterior daylight shots. So the schedule wasn’t a problem.

Nor was wrangling the talent all that difficult. Laszlo was pompous, temperamental and easily distracted, but he didn’t have any performance anxiety and never needed to stop shooting to take a smoke break. 

No, the problem with Laszlo Cravensworth, accomplished porn actor and most definitely not a vampire, was more…organic.

“We can’t show that thing in the final cut,” Griff, the cameraman, remarked over Crowley’s shoulder as they reviewed day’s footage. “It’ll have everyone in the theatre going soft as an overcooked parsnip. We’ll never work in this town again.”

Crowley paused on an image of Laszlo, naked but for a cape and bowtie, advancing on an equally under-clad young athlete doing some locker-room warmups. Crowley did have to admit, the vampire’s trouser situation was certainly ample. Of course, that only made it easier to see the problem.

“What do you suppose is wrong with it? Does syphilis do that?” Griff scratched his head and lit a cigarette. 

“Doubt it.” Crowley was actually more willing to put his money on leprosy, although of course it wouldn’t do to mention that in front of anyone on set. He’d seen firsthand what kind of hysteria _that_ particular affliction stirred up. “I take it none of the lads are keen on getting up close and personal, yeah?”

“Eh, slip most of them an extra tenner and they’ll take their chances. It’s the audience I’m worried about.” With a long, nicotine-stained finger, Griff tapped the screen. “We can fix a lot in post, but he’s the leading man, y’know? Gotta show his tallywhacker _sometime_.”

“Right. I’ll talk to him.” Crowley stood, straightened his sport coat and adjusted his mirror shades. “He’s supposed to be a professional. I’m sure he’s had this conversation before.”

——

“I’m sorry, old chap, but I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

In hindsight, it was probably better to have this conversation on set, rather than inviting Laszlo to the pub around the corner. Crowley had opted for the latter out of a desire to not be overheard by the other cast members[4]. The pub was dark, low-ceilinged, and staffed with the sorts of people who did not need to be miraculously persuaded to mind their own business. Perfect for Crowley’s usual dealings. 

Granted, Laszlo’s immediate bellowing of “Two human alcohol beers, for my good self and my mustachioed friend!” did put a strain on the air of discretion. Crowley steered him toward a table at the back and resolved to make this quick. 

There’s no really diplomatic way to say, “Listen, mate, what’s wrong with your cock?” but Crowley thought he gave it a fair shot by steepling his fingers professionally and asking Laszlo how past directors had handled his ‘affliction’.

Now Laszlo was feigning ignorance, and Crowley desperately wanted some of the crew around to back him up on this. None of them had been hired for their diplomacy.

“Come off it,” Crowley tried again. “I see all the footage. I’m not calling your abilities into question. If anything, it’s impressive that you’ve managed to make a career of it anyway. Just…we can’t be showing that on camera, right?”

“ _Au contraire_ ,” Laszlo replied. He raised his hand in a sort of claw-like gesture. Crowley thought he heard a musical sting, something like a clavier key being struck. “You absolutely can show it on camera. In fact, my penis is the finest one you’ve ever seen.”

He lowered his hand and looked at Crowley expectantly. 

“Ah.” Crowley felt some measure of relief. At least he knew what he was dealing with now. “Listen, Cravensworth, that’s not going to work on me.”

“Nonsense! You _will_ submit to my dark power!”

Laszlo raised his hand again, and Crowley removed his glasses.

“What the fuck!” Laszlo reared back in his seat, nearly knocking his untouched pint over. 

Several patrons looked in their direction. Crowley snapped his fingers impatiently and the barman dropped a tray of glasses, the resulting commotion distracting everyone away again.

“Calm down, would you?” he hissed. “Honestly, it’s a miracle you haven’t been staked yet, the way you draw attention to yourself.”

“That’s rich coming from someone with fucking snake eyes,” Laszlo snapped back. “I knew there was some reason you wear those daft sunglasses all the time.”

“Fooled you, didn’t they?” Crowley had never mastered the trick of rolling his eyes, so he settled for scowling very hard. “Must have, if you thought hypnotizing me would work.”

“So what are they, a curse?” Having recovered from his initial shock, Laszlo seemed interested now. “Run afoul of a witch? I’ve been there. Don’t believe them when they say they just want your semen, there’s always a catch!”

“No, that’s…what?” Crowley decided he didn’t have time to sort out whatever that meant. “I’m a demon, idiot.”

“Now, you shouldn’t talk about yourself like that. I’m sure you’re a very clever demon.” Laszlo drummed his ring-laden fingers on the tabletop and appeared to think deeply for a moment. “Well, this makes things a little more complicated. To be perfectly honest, I’ve just hypnotized any director I had a problem with. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just let me do that?”

“I don’t think it works that way. Anyway, are you saying that every porno you’ve been in you’ve just hypnotized everyone into ignoring…that?”

Laszlo sniffed. “You know, I don’t recall there being this level of discrimination in erotic cinema the last time I turned my hand to it. Are you sure anyone else has even noticed?”

“I’m sure.” Realizing this conversation was going nowhere, Crowley drained the rest of his pint of lager and helped himself to Laszlo’s. “Forget I said anything. I’ll handle it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Laszlo leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Now, I don’t suppose a distinguished gentleman such as yourself knows where someone of my…particular appetites might find refreshment around here? I’ve had a devil of a time finding virgins, although I did see a bookshop around the corner that looked promising-“

“No, stay away from there.” Crowley interrupted. “This isn’t really the right neighborhood for virgins. The park’s got joggers at night, if you’re into that.”

“I’ll try anything once. Are they…appetizing?” Laszlo winked.

“Scrummy,” he promised. “Bit hard to catch, but trust me, they’re worth it.”

Crowley knew Aziraphale wouldn’t approve, but figured any jogger that couldn’t outrun the Great Fanged Idiot was beyond even the most indulgent divine mercy. Besides, he’d caught one of them leaning against the Bentley the other day, so he knew exactly where the lot of them could go.

——

_From the personal diary of Laszlo Cravensworth, October 13th, 1973._

_A most fascinating turn of events has unfolded, dear diary! It seems my esteemed director Mr. Crowley is not, in fact, a normal human pornographer, but a demon of some power and import. He chose to confide this secret to me this evening past, no doubt sensing my own dark nature and yearning for the company of a kindred spirit. I am resolved to do my best to assuage his loneliness in my brief time here, although the siren call of Staten Island and my good lady wife will bear me home all too soon._

_Despite some setbacks, the film is progressing swimmingly. None but our inimitable director know of my true nature, and so are rather awed not only by my stamina and prowess, but my keen instinct for depth of character. In fact, the cameraman has taken to replacing many of the genitalia shots with close-ups of my chiseled visage instead, to better capture the raw emotion of the scene. When completed, “Vampire Bathhouse” may well be my finest acting achievement yet._

_Would I could wile away the rest of the night with you, dearest diary, but I’m afraid I must take some time to limber up before my nightly hunt. The choicest prey in Soho is extremely fleet of foot, and rather slippery to boot. To the park!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11Much of this business was conducted in Soho, where Crowley had taken to spending a lot of time for reasons that had nothing to do with a certain bookshop run by a certain celestial being. By the time he realized the effect that his business dealings were having on the neighborhood, it was much too late to change course, and too amusing to watch Aziraphale’s consternation as the neighborhood grew increasingly lurid around him. Once, when Aziraphale had let it slip that the Archangel Gabriel was due in town for a performance review, Crowley saw to it that all the Soho adult theatres’ offerings ran to the particularly sacrilegious. The one closest to the bookshop advertised a double feature of _Secrets of the Naughty Nunnery_ and _Wrestling In Heaven_ , complete with posters. Aziraphale didn’t speak to Crowley for a month afterward.[return to text]
> 
> 22Cordless phones had not been invented yet, and although Crowley could easily have modified the one in his flat, he’d grown wary of adopting new technologies before any of the humans. He’d been hanged as a witch twice for jumping the gun on such things.[return to text]
> 
> 33Any situation a demon bureaucrat finds amusing is perilous for _someone._ [return to text]
> 
> 44And a subliminal instinct that when discussing delicate situations with an anachronistically-dressed supernatural entity, the availability of alcohol and tempting snacks was key to everything going smoothly. Satan only knew where he’d picked up _that_ idea.[return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

“Now, Dirk, what say you and I go down to the lap pool? I’ll give you some pointers on your _stroke._ ”

“Cut!”

Griff lit a cigarette. Laszlo’s scene partner, who’s real name was Ethan, went to towel off. Crowley left his post behind the camera to pull Laszlo aside for another round of notes.

“Laszlo.” Crowley spoke quietly enough not to be overheard, no easy task in a mic’ed-up locker room. “I can’t help but notice Ethan’s bite marks look a little different today.”

“Yes, you’ll want to have a word with the makeup artist,” Laszlo replied, shrugging into a black silk kimono. “I’m fairly certain she’s been smoking the reefer.”

“No, I don’t think Judy is the problem.” Crowley glanced around at the other cast members milling about, several of whom were sporting suspicious marks. “You can’t feed off the cast, Laszlo.”

“Well, they _did_ invite me out for drinks before work yesterday,” the vampire answered with a hearty chuckle. 

“You’re going to blow both of our covers!” Crowley hissed.

“Preposterous! Between my hypnosis and your infernal influence, we’ve got it made, old man.”

Revealing his true nature to Laszlo had not kept the vampire in line as effectively as Crowley had been hoping. He seemed to have gotten it through his head that Crowley had the whole cast and crew demonically[1] enslaved to do his bidding, as opposed to the hundred-quid stipend and open tab at the pub that he had used to lure most of them in. 

“No more biting! If anything, it’s unprofessional.”

Laszlo frowned. “Now, you just hold on with that malarkey, Crowley. I’ve been in thousands of porno films. I won’t stand here and be called a fucking amateur.” He pronounced the last word with a hard “t”.

“Right, well, if you want to try and hypnotize me again, go right ahead. But on the off-chance that doesn’t work you ought to remember that _I’m_ the director here and you’re going to bloody well do what I tell you to.”

“I certainly won’t stand to be spoken to like that,” Laszlo replied with an indignant huff. “Bat!”

With a _poof_ sound, he turned into a bat, flew past the crew’s astonished faces, bounced off the doorjamb and flapped, a little unsteadily, into the darkness of the hall.

There were a few stunned seconds during which the only audible sound was Crowley slowly grinding his teeth.

“Where the fuck,” he wondered aloud, “am I going to find a wooden stake at this hour?”

By the time Crowley was able to get everyone’s memory of the incident erased, it was nearly dawn, he was in a horrible mood, and there was no sign of their leading man.

On the way home, he caused a power outage on the block next to his that would make two-dozen people late for work when their clock radios failed to go off. It only made him feel a little bit better.

——

_From the personal diary of Laszlo Cravensworth, October 15th, 1973._

_I’m afraid I encountered the proverbial fly in the ointment today, dear diary. Crowley is behaving a right prick, and I was forced to leave the set early when our argument re: my acting method threatened to endanger my fellow cast members. I know I’ll never be granted a medal for my efforts, but neither can I stand by and let myself be disrespected by some overgrown asp!_

_Oh, but it gets my dander right up! To think I was going to ask him to show me how to do my nails like his._

_If only my Nadja were here. The last time a demon got fresh with her, she ripped his tongue out and shoved it up his arse! Ha! Granted, he actually quite enjoyed it, but the message, I thought, was still clear. That message, of course, being: don’t fuck with me, or I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it up your arse,_ without _bothering to find out if you’d enjoy it first! That would give old Antony pause, I’d wager. Perhaps I should send it as a note._

_Ah, but such is the burden of the successful husband. As a married man, I understand compromise and communication in a way that a bachelor like Crowley cannot be expected to. I suspect I shall have to be the bigger man here, beyond the ways I have currently demonstrated (ho-ho!), and make peace. After all, the show must go on._

——

It occurred to Crowley that he could simply scrap the whole project, pay everyone off, and consider it an expensive lesson learned in actually checking people’s credentials before hiring them. Reckless, to be sure, but a fair step down from other ideas that had occurred to him over the past few hours, which included spiking all the lubricant on set with garlic and rewriting the script to give Laszlo’s character a Belgian accent.[2]

After a completely unsatisfying attempt at having a nap, Crowley left his flat once more and drove back to Soho, passing by the filming location to park in front of A.Z. Fell and Co. Booksellers. Amid the neighborhood’s neon and flash, the cramped little bookshop was almost suspiciously quaint. Several of the customers Crowley saw coming and going seemed to be expecting, or hoping, for the place to turn out to be a front for something far more scandalous. Crowley had no idea if Aziraphale knew about this, and had no intention of telling him.

Inside, Aziraphale was in the middle of hard-selling an astronomy book to a trio of horrified uni students. The volume was exquisitely illustrated and cost more, Crowley guessed, than all three of them saw in a year’s worth of waiting tables or slinging drinks to their peers. They were all attempting to create physical distance between themselves and Aziraphale while he extolled the virtue of the typeset, no doubt frantic with worry that at any moment the social contract would kick in and they would be obligated to make an offer of purchase or suffer the unthinkable consequences of having to explain they could not afford it, followed by the walk of shame onto the pavement with the rest of the underfunded rabble. It took only a few more minutes for the students to decide they were better off window-shopping somewhere else, all but shoving past each other to get out the door. Aziraphale allowed himself a tiny, satisfied smirk and put the book back on its strategically-positioned display stand.

“Reverse psychology? How devious,” Crowley remarked, leaning against the dusty checkout counter.

“Hardly,” Aziraphale answered. “Everything I said to them was one-hundred percent factually accurate. How they chose to interpret it was entirely up to them.”

“Hmm. Let me take you to lunch.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, now. I’m here now, aren’t I? Come on, I know closing in the middle of the day is a vital part of your system.”

Aziraphale frowned, but Crowley could tell he was considering it.

“Is this a social visit, or a professional one?”

“Both. Neither,” Crowley hedged. “It’s…complicated. You’ll like the details better on a full stomach.”

To that the angel responded only with a cutting glare, before moving over the door to flip the little sign to “Closed”, right in the faces of an approaching tourist couple.

“Something tells me I’m not going to like the details, no matter what,” he muttered, and went to fetch his coat.

——

Twenty minutes later, the two of them were seated at a very nice outdoor cafe. Crowley glowered at Aziraphale over his cappuccino[3], waiting for the angel to stop laughing long enough to finally take a bite of his _quiche lorraine_. 

“I suppose I should count myself lucky that you’re not speechless with disapproval,” Crowley remarked acidly when he could finally get a word in edgewise.

“Well, officially of course I condemn the whole thing,” Aziraphale replied, pulling his usual stuffy demeanor back into place. “But really, Crowley, I _have_ been on this planet just as long as you. To say nothing of living in this neighborhood for most of a century.”

“Fine.” Crowley, eager to head off another _Which-one-of-us-has-seen-the-most-messed-up-shit_ discussion, waved his hand impatiently. “So you’ll help me out, then.”

“Now, I didn’t say _that_.”

“Please?” He tried to pout, something he couldn’t quite pull off with his current facial hair. “I told you, he’s a moron. And besides, scaring a vampire straight is well within your wheelhouse. You could even put it on your official report, I’ll bet.”

“I’ll be doing no such thing,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Why can’t you just ask a more powerful demon to have a word with him?”

“You think I want any of them to know I’m in a power struggle with a vampire? I’d never hear the end of it. It’d be like my Bentley losing a race to a Ford Pinto.”

“A what?”

“Never mind,” Crowley snapped. “It’ll barely inconvenience you. Just come in, put the fear of you-know-who into him and off you go. Nothing licentious. Who knows, you might even get on. You’re not all that different, the two of you.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I very much doubt that.”

——

“What the hell is this?” Aziraphale demanded as soon as Crowley turned the lights on in the steam room.

Admittedly, the place was something of a mess. The penultimate scene, where the football team, now vampires themselves, find the head vampire slumbering in his coffin and summarily roger him across it, was to be shot that night. Most of the scenery was already complete. In addition to the coffin occupying the center of the room, artful splashes of fake blood decorated the walls and floor, and someone had taken the liberty of gluing a few rubber bats here and there. 

“It’s the set. Don’t worry about it.” Crowley made to lean against the wall, then thought better of it. A few scenes had already been shot in here. “The sun goes down in fifteen minutes. Let’s just play it cool until he gets here.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was hushed, cautious. “Is that coffin meant to be moving?”

“What? Of course not.” Crowley followed the angel’s gaze. The coffin was definitely vibrating faintly, the sound echoing off the tiled walls.

“Is he…in there? Sleeping?”

“Wouldn’t be moving if he was.” Crowley took a hesitant step closer. “Vampires don’t really _sleep_ during the day, you know. They more…turn off.”

“So what’s in there?”

“How the heaven should I know?” Moving as silently as he could, Crowley approached the coffin and gripped the edge of the lid. “Maybe an animal got stuck in there somehow.”

“Let it out!”

“I’m _going_ to, if you’d shut up a moment.”

Crowley flipped the lid off the coffin, the sound huge and painful in the echoing space. 

“Oh, _come on_ ,” he yelled, reeling back from what was inside.

Laszlo was in the coffin. He was not asleep, and definitely could not be described as “turned off.”

“I say, ever hear of knocking?” Laszlo shouted. 

Trousers still askew, Laszlo tried to rise up out of the coffin. Apparently his private activities had caused some fundamental damage to the black-draped sawhorses that had been supporting the thing, because there was a moment of precarious wobbling before the whole arrangement toppled over in a heap of splinters, black velvet, and still, somehow, partially-aroused vampire.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. 

“I see what you mean by ‘complicated’,” he said coolly.

Laszlo clambered to his feet, got a good look at Aziraphale, and immediately scrambled backwards.

“Who the fuck is that?” he exclaimed. “What is he, a priest? He smells bloody awful.”

“Well, _really_ ,” Aziraphale scoffed. At the same time, Crowley finally got his flummoxed brain to start sending messages to his vocal cords again, and launched into his carefully-crafted ruse. 

“He’s…er, that is, he’s here to…we…shitting bollocksing fuck, Laszlo, _what were you doing?_ ”

Fastening his belt, Laszlo gave him a cockeyed grin. “Rehearsing?”

The plan, as they’d discussed it back at the cafe, had been for Aziraphale to introduce himself as Crowley’s silent partner in the operation, splash some angelic grace about (Crowley’s word choice, and one Aziraphale intensely disapproved of) and imply that if Laszlo did not respect Crowley’s authority, he would have Aziraphale to answer to.

“Trust me, vampires are unbelievably skittish about anything holy,” Crowley had explained. “Flash a bit of wing and he’ll be halfway back across the ocean before he realizes he hasn’t got a boat.”

Either way, it would have kept Laszlo in line or gotten him out of Crowley’s hair for good. But the plan rather depended on Crowley being able to articulate himself properly and maintain a certain amount of poise. 

“Right,” he said. “Plan B. Aziraphale, you hold him down while I kick the shit out of him.”

“Now wait a tick, I never agreed to that,” Aziraphale began. Before he could continue, Laszlo shifted into some kind of claw-handed fighting stance and hissed at Crowley, fangs on full display.

Crowley hissed back and launched himself at Laszlo. The two of them collided and tumbled to the floor.

Amidst the flurry of fists and knees and expensive black fabrics, Crowley couldn’t help but notice Aziraphale was _not_ leaping to his aid. He risked a glance over his shoulder to find out what the angel was up to and found himself in some sort of headlock. 

“Took me for some limp-wristed nervous Nellie, did you?” Laszlo panted. “Well, fight these tears, you jive turkey!”

Crowley bit down on Laszlo’s hand, sending a hefty wallop of venom through his fangs. Laszlo yelped in surprise but didn’t let go of him, just sort of awkwardly squished the both of them against the floor.

“Are you _still_ hard?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“I’m a sodding professional, aren’t I?”

A gout of icy water crashed over the both of them, soaking them from head to toe. Laszlo thrashed in panic.

“Curses! The priest has doused us in holy water!”

“It’s just regular water, and I’m not a priest,” Aziraphale snapped, brandishing the empty bucket he had conjured up. “I’ll do it again if you don’t stop behaving like children, the both of you.”

“He started it!” they both yelled.

Aziraphale blinked, and the bucket refilled itself. 

“Fine.” Crowley spat out the bitter taste of vampire blood and shoved Laszlo off of him. “Let’s talk this out like adults.”

Laszlo climbed to his feet, then immediately crashed to the floor again.

Crowley frowned. “Shit. The venom. Alright, Aziraphale, let’s clean up the set first. We’ve got about half an hour before he comes around.”

——

By the time Laszlo regained consciousness, the set had been restored and the rest of the cast and crew should have been arriving. No one had yet, and Crowley was distantly worried about that, but he told himself there was probably just bad traffic in town.

He’d propped his leading man up against a wall in a seated position while he and Aziraphale cleaned up. Now the two of them stood over him as Laszlo grumbled and rubbed his eyes.

“Bloody hell, my head hurts. Suppose we’ll call it a draw, eh, Crowley?”

“Laszlo,” Crowley hissed. He crouched down to bring himself face to face with the vampire, glasses off to show his eyes in full serpentine aspect. “Ssseems you and I have a misunderstanding regarding the chain of command around here. I’d like you to meet my partner, Mr. uh, Eastman. As you can sssee, he’s _blessed_ with certain _talents_.”

He nodded his head meaningfully toward Aziraphale as he said this.

“How do you do?” Aziraphale said with a polite nod. “Crowley told me there might be some trouble on the set. I just came by to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“No, we’ve got it all squared away, haven’t we, old chap?” Laszlo looked fearfully from Aziraphale to Crowley.

“I think we might, at that,” Crowley agreed. “Now that we all understand each other.”

“Right. Will you be staying for today’s shoot, Mr. Eastman?”

“Oh, I think not,” Aziraphale answered hurriedly. “In fact, I have another rather urgent appointment, er, right now. Crowley? Will that be all?”

“Sure.” Crowley straightened up again, made a show of shaking Aziraphale’s hand while keeping one eye on Laszlo. “See you at our next _business meeting_.”

Aziraphale appeared to be suppressing a smirk. He nodded to the both of them and left.

Laszlo picked himself up and regarded his wet clothes with distaste. “Well, that’s a shame. Had this cravat for two centuries. Hear now, why aren’t your clothes wet?”

Crowley was about to answer[4] when Aziraphale came back in, eyes wide.

“Sorry to interrupt, but…I think you might have a bigger problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11In fact, he was worried that the patience many of them had exhibited was enough to qualify them right out of his jurisdiction.[return to text]
> 
> 22He’d decided against both of these, not because he didn’t think Laszlo deserved it but out of a sense of mercy for the cast’s ears and other orifices.[return to text]
> 
> 33Into the foam of which he’d drawn a complicated rune ensuring that a demonically appropriate curl of steam would always be drifting up around his face, no matter how much the actual beverage cooled.[return to text]
> 
> 44Untruthfully.[return to text]


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s rather like that horror film, isn’t it?” Aziraphale remarked. Crowley and Laszlo both nodded.[1]

The cast and crew of _Vampire Bathhouse_ was gathered in the alleyway behind the gym. Most of them were shuffling about listlessly, occasionally grumbling or shoving when they jostled up against each other. A few were attempting to perform what Crowley recognized as routine tasks. Griff tried to light a cigarette and squawked in pain as he lit his index finger on fire instead. Judy, the makeup artist, sat down directly on the pavement, opened her two-tiered makeup kit, and began to gently apply foundation to a patch on the wall.

“Laszlo,” Crowley said through clenched teeth. “Would you like to tell me what I’m looking at here?”

“Oh, I’d say we’ve got ourselves a case of the Thoughtless Sallies,” Laszlo answered pensively. “Maybe Brain Scramblies, for a few of these poor devils.” He pointed at Griff, who was sucking on his burnt finger. “Quite a shame, that. We must’ve gone a bit overboard on the hypnosis, eh, Crowley?”

“ _We?_ ” Crowley spun and shoved Laszlo into the doorjamb. “You’re the one who’s been treating this whole production like your own personal all-you-can-suck buffet.”

“Hardly! At least the director of _All-You-Can-Suck Buffet_ knew how to keep his star happy!”

“Enough,” Aziraphale warned. “So you’re saying you two have, what? Scrambled these poor souls’ brains?”

“I’m sure it’s just a vampire expression,” Crowley muttered. At the same time Laszlo nodded and said, “Yes, that’s about the size of it. We’ll be lucky if a man among this lot can tell an arse from an elbow.”

“You realize that’s going to be a problem?” 

“Of course it’s a problem, how are we supposed to finish the damn film now?”

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s arm. “May I speak to you privately for a moment?”

They retreated a few meters down the alley, Crowley keeping one eye on Laszlo to make sure he wasn’t breakfasting on the crew. “Alright, so obviously things have gotten a little out of hand.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale crossed his arms, face stern. “I must say I’m disappointed in you.”

“What did _I_ do? He’s the one who’s been hypnotizing them left and right!”

“Didn’t you say you had to erase their memories last night? After the, er, bat incident?”

Crowley opened his mouth to refute this, then closed it. He brought one hand up to his forehead.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“So it’s possible, then? That your combined efforts may have…”

“It’s possible…LASZLO! Don’t think I can’t see you! What’re you doing?”

Laszlo was crouching on the pavement next to Judy. At Crowley’s voice he looked up, then waved one hand back and forth to show off the new black polish on his nails. “This one isn’t as bad as I thought! She keeps sniffing from the little bottles, but besides that she seems fine!”

Judy reached over and grabbed Laszlo by the beard. “Now, Tricia, stop fidgeting. I still need to trim your mandibles.”

Leaving them to it, Crowley turned back to Aziraphale. The angel was frowning deeply at the whole scene.

“You know we have to help these people,” he said.

“ _You_ have to do things like that,” Crowley snapped. “I could march them all into the Thames if I wanted.”

“You don’t actually want to do that.”

“Well.” Crowley scratched his head. “No. But this _is_ turning into a bit of a mess, and if I perform a bunch of healing miracles on top of it there’s going to be a _lot_ of questions, so…”

He raised his eyebrows hopefully at Aziraphale, who sighed.

“Fine. You owe me.”

“We can talk about that later.” Turning back toward the milling production team, Crowley raised his voice. “Everyone! Gather round, director announcement! Laszlo, Judy, you too!”

Slowly everyone shuffled into a loose clump. Griff chewed on another cigarette. Judy began applying rouge to the back of Ethan’s head, who turned around and said, “Hey! That tickles!” before facing Crowley again.

“Right. Er. Everyone, this is my associate Mr. Eastman.” Crowley gestured toward Aziraphale, who responded with a nervous smile. “He’s going to be…uh…what are you going to be doing, exactly?”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “Best start with triage, I suppose. Alright. Um, who can tell me what six multiplied by seven is?”

Judy raised her hand. Aziraphale’s smile brightened.

“Yes, you! Go on.”

“Seven’s the bigger number,” Judy answered, lifting her chin proudly. Laszlo clapped her encouragingly on the shoulder. A few people nearby clapped.

Crowley elbowed Aziraphale in the ribs. “Multiplication tables? Really?”

“It seemed a reasonable place to start!”

“For Heaven’s sake, they don’t need to be Fulbright scholars! Just get them to do their jobs.”

The assembled crew was watching this argument with no apparent interest in the outcome. Crowley heard a lighting technician he had hired personally lean over to his neighbor and whisper, “Who’s the guy in the sunglasses?”

Sensing things were going to continue deteriorating, Crowley decided to switch tactics. “Okay. Congratulations, everyone! The film’s finished! I want to thank you all for doing an excellent job, if you require a future reference from me just remember, my name is Eric Ericson and my phone number is, uh, sixty-two. Anyone who wants to get paid should sit quietly and do whatever Mr. Eastman says.”

Frantically waving off Aziraphale’s stammered protests, Crowley pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed Laszlo by the collar. 

“Let’s go, Count Prat-ula. We’re finishing this thing if it kills you.”

——

Back on set, Crowley’s first order of business was to turn on the steam and shove the now quite rickety coffin out of the way. Laszlo watched curiously from the doorway.

“While I can’t say I’m entirely opposed,” he drawled, “are you sure a recasting won’t be a bit jarring for our audience?”

“What are you talking about?” Crowley, mostly focused on deciding whether the steam would sufficiently hide the fake bats and bloodstains on the wall, was only half-listening.

“I’m to understand the two of us shall be performing the, ah, climactic scene?”

At that, Crowley turned. “Laszlo,” he said coolly, “the climactic scene has eight people in it.”

Laszlo nodded and waggled his eyebrows. “Best limber up, eh, old chap?”

Given the circles Crowley tended to operate in, unwanted sexual propositions were as much a part of the job as countless other demonic nuisances. Were he asked[2], he would have ranked them somewhere between “animals taking an instant dislike to him” and “having to attend a four-hour seminar on medieval torture devices at the same time humans were innovating things like Sodium Pentothal and Jazzercise” on the irksomeness scale. He was quite used to his enthusiasm for, and abilities pertaining to, such things being exaggerated. 

Never, though, had anyone implied before that he might be capable of doing the pornographic work of seven people, and just for a second, Crowley was tempted to find out if it was possible. He did enjoy a challenge.

Then he remembered he was almost certainly going to have to review and edit all that footage, much of it bound to be unflattering, by himself, and dismissed the idea. There are some torments that not even Hell can prepare you for.

“No,” Crowley said, enjoying the miffed look on Laszlo’s face a bit more than he liked to admit. “Misdirection, that’s going to be the key here. And close-ups. How are you at improvising?”

“Close-ups, you say?” Laszlo loosened his cuffs and moved toward the center of the room. “I’m all ears. What’s my motivation?”

The steam had begun to give everything a fuzzy glow, a look far too ethereal for Crowley’s liking. He cranked the dial on the wall all the way to the right and cracked his knuckles. “Right. You’re a vampire looking for a hot meal, and you’ve found your way into what you think is the women’s steam room.”

Laszlo nodded gravely and waited, apparently very keen to find out what happened next.

——

_From the personal diary of Laszlo Cravensworth, October 17th, 1973._

_Oh diary, would that I had the time and energy to recount all that has occurred these past two days! Unfortunately, I am exhausted to a degree I have not known in all of my pornographic career. Making love is a demanding task, but making art even more so. And make no mistake, it is art that Crowley and I have produced._

_Faced with mortal intimidation from Crowley’s business associate (and trust me, diary, the less that is said of him the better!) and a rather unfortunate outbreak of Brain Scramblies among the cast and crew, Crowley and I, like so many men faced with an arduous task, turned to each other’s strength and flexibility to see each other to a satisfying conclusion. I must say, after some initial awkwardness the two of us got on like the proverbial house on fire. I believe in the end he came to enjoy it as much as I did, although I suppose only the finished product will really be the measure of that._

_And what a finished product it will be!_ Vampire Bathhouse _has it all; intrigue, suspense, emotion, nudity and style. Crowley did warn me that the editing process will be long and hard, and the studio may insist on a title change, but I have every confidence in my new friend that our vision shall be preserved. The siren song of Staten Island and my beloved wife calls me back across the sea, and it is with my head held high and a spring in my step that I’ll be going._

——

_”I got no friends cause they read the papers…they can’t be seen…with me- CROWLEY?”_

Swearing, Crowley narrowly avoided clipping a parked car and scowled at the Bentley’s stereo. “Yeah?”

“CAN YOU HEAR ME? IS THIS WORKING? I DON’T THINK IT’S WORKING,” Alice Cooper shouted at him over the squealing guitars.

“It’s working!” Crowley yelled back. “Who is this? _What_ is this?”

“It’s Dagon,” Alice Cooper continued in a somewhat calmer tone. “We finally got around to reading that report of yours about upgrading the communication systems. Isn’t that great?”

“Splendid,” Crowley hissed, silently cursing himself for once again overestimating Hell’s abilities to understand new technology. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“Just wanted to let you know we received a copy of your new vampire film down here,” Dagon-as-Alice chuckled. “A bit artsier than we were expecting.”

“Yes, well, pushing the envelope is key, that’s what I always say[3],” Crowley muttered. He had yet to inform any of the cast and crew of _Vampire Tricked in Steam Room_ that the final cut had been released. Aziraphale had made it sound like it would be best not to remind any of the humans he’d healed of the details, although he had also insisted Crowley pay everyone their full wages for the project. And as for the leading man, well…

As irritating as Laszlo had been, in the end Crowley was a bit sorry to see him go. Having another occult being around was comforting in a way, if only to illuminate the levels of incompetence one could sink to and still, somehow, scrape by. 

“I have to admit, none of us saw the plot twist coming! All those close-ups really kept us guessing who was doing what.”

“Yeah. Glad you enjoyed it.” Crowley actually was proud of the editing, a process that had involved copious amounts of explicit stock footage, vocal manipulation, strange angles and, in one shot, some rather creative shadow puppetry. He suspected the project would be worthy of several awards if it wasn’t loaded with shots of Laszlo’s climax-face. He’d had to promise a certain percentage of them would be included to get the vampire to go along with the new script. 

“Oh, we did. Have to say we’re all looking forward to the sequel.”

Crowley nearly swerved into a lorry. “ _Sequel?_ ”

“Of course! We have to find out what happens next, don’t we? Who were all those men? What were they doing in the women’s steam room?”

“I…” There were very few feelings more uncomfortable than wondering if you were about to insult a supervisor by asking what appeared to be an obvious question. “Um…you watched the whole thing, yes? I thought the end was fairly, er, definitive.”

“Really? Hm. Well, we’re all looking forward to your next project, Crowley. _No more…Mister Nice Guy!_ ”

Alice Cooper once again free to elaborate on what type of guy he no longer was, Crowley turned the volume up and contemplated his next move. Knowing that his superiors were satisfied with the pornography business gave him a compulsive need to get involved in something else.

Perhaps transportation. Traffic in and out of London was getting more hectic by the day, but there was always something a demon could do to make things a little worse.

——

A month later, Crowley placed a long distance call to Staten Island. After some transatlantic crackle and several rings, an irritable-sounding man with an American accent answered, coughing wetly several times into the receiver before croaking, “Hello?”

“Uh.” Crowley had specifically timed the call planning to get an answering machine, and was startled that anyone was picking up the phone in the middle of the day. “Is Laszlo there?”

Another ear-splitting clearing of phlegm. “Well, that depends on who’s calling.”

“This is Crowley? From London?”

“Crowley.” There was a rustling sound, as of the receiver being moved from one shoulder to another. “I don’t see a Crowley in the house Rolodex. If this is a sales call, you should know that 399-WW of Article 26 of New York General Business Law very clearly states that any telephone sales operator is required to-“

Crowley found himself getting very tired all of a sudden.

“Look, could you just ask Laszlo to call me back?”

“No, hang on, I’ll see if I can wake him up.” There was a loud _bang_ as if the receiver had been dropped, then a scraping sound followed by more rustling. From a distance Crowley could hear the strange man calling for Laszlo, periodically rapping “shave and a haircut” on various surfaces. 

Eventually he heard Laszlo’s familiar voice grumble, “What the hell do you want?” followed by some muffled conversation. Crowley heard the American say, “I would just like to point out that long-distance telephone rates have increased at three times the rate of inflation in the last seven years, so if you’re planning to call him back I would recommend you place it collect-“ before an accented female voice cut in.

“Colin Robinson, get the fuck out of our bedroom! Laszlo, would you just answer the phone? Whatever was in those Jehovah’s Witnesses is giving me an awful bloody headache.”

“Not to worry, my darling, you get your rest. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Finally, Laszlo’s voice came in clearly. “Crowley? That you, old man?”

“Laszlo. Hi.” It took a second for Crowley to remember his reason for calling. He really just wanted to lie down and not think about anything for a while. “How’s, uh…drinking blood?”

“Well, you know what they say,” Laszlo chuckled. “Some days you’re the bat, some days you’re the…bat food. Anyway. I suspect you’re not just calling to catch up?”

“No,” Crowley admitted. “Actually, I’ve got a favor to ask you. You, er, fancy a trip to Hell?”

“Are you honestly asking, or is this your left-handed way of telling me to sod off? Cause if it’s the latter, let me tell _you_ -“

“No, no, I’m asking! There’s a convention coming up and I could really use some credit with management, and our little project is actually quite popular down there, so if I could bring you as a guest…”

“Ahh.” Laszlo’s voice dropped to a lower pitch, as if to avoid being overheard. “The Steam Team, reunited by popular demand! I’m in.”

“We’re absolutely not going to be called that.”

“Just consider it. Shall I book passage to England, then?”

“No need. Just say my name three times into the mirror,” Crowley answered in what he hoped were sepulchral tones. “I’ll find you.”

“Really?” Laszlo sounded positively giddy. “I must say, that’s groovy indeed! I’ll just be a minute.”

The line disconnected, and Crowley bit down on his cheek to keep from howling with laughter. About sixty seconds passed, and then the phone rang again.

“Did you do it? You actually did it, didn’t you?” he cackled.

“You complete prick.”

“I knew you’d fall for it. Seriously, though, meet me at the crossroads in Clarksdale, Mississippi on midnight of Thursday next. We’ll catch a ride from there.”

Laszlo warmly agreed and they hung up. Crowley wondered if the vampire would actually go, and what kind of mess he would get himself into when he found himself stranded in the middle of nowhere. Crowley suspected he would hear about it eventually. If there was one thing he knew about Laszlo Cravensworth, it was that while he might go down occasionally, he never stayed there for very long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11Aziraphale was referring to _Night of the Living Dead_ , which he had seen the first twenty minutes of when he was supposed to clandestinely meet with Crowley at a crowded screening of _Barbarella_ and had gone into the wrong theatre. Laszlo had never seen the original, although he had been in an adult parody two years later called _Night of the Giving Head_ and understood the reference. Crowley was reminded of _Manos: The Hands of Fate_ , because it had been shown recently at a compulsory film festival in Hell and also because this production was turning into a complete disaster.[return to text]
> 
> 22And he sometimes was, for infernal auditing purposes and general bureaucratic redundancy.[return to text]
> 
> 33He had in fact never said that before, and would not say it again until a very inebriated evening in 1985 when he found himself accidentally trapped inside a mailbox while in snake form.[return to text]


End file.
